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Saturday, April 15, 2017

The night shift nurse who cared
for me in the maternity ward was an absolute angel. She was comforting and
reassuring and compassionate. She gave me answers without having to ask
questions. She asked if I wanted to try and pump, then aim to feed my baby around
6:00am.

6:00am. That was the best gift I
could have hoped for at the time. It
wasn’t going to be days (as I had feared) before I could see my baby. It was
going to be hours. I was able to rest more easily, knowing that I was gathering
strength to make my trip in the morning.

She came in at 2:00am to help me
set up pump. She told me that it was completely normal to only pump 1-2 milliliters
of colostrum. I pumped 11mL. H had just come back from visiting the baby around
that time and I sent him right out to feed W. If I wasn’t able to give my child
his first feeding directly, then it wasn’t going to be a nurse when his father
was available.

My nurse had me out of bed less
than 7 hours after having my abdominal muscles rendered apart. She helped me
get up out of bed and helped me walk the short distance to the restroom. Knowing that I was strong enough to get out
of bed and walk that short distance did wonders for my morale. If I could make
it out of bed to the bathroom, I could surely make it into a wheelchair.

At 6:00am, she came back. She
helped me dress and called for a wheelchair to take me down to NICU while H
slept on the couch.

After so many long months of
waiting and hours of uncertainty, I finally met my son. I finally held my son.

I took a photo at that first
meeting. The sun is shining through the window behind us and everything has a
soft, ethereal glow. More than just being the first photo of us, the image
captures the sense of joy and relief and peace I felt as I sat in that rocking
chair in the quiet hours of the early morning, bonding with this new little
person as we began our new lives together.

Friday, April 14, 2017

The details about what happened get a bit hazy for a while. From
the moment we decided that the C-section was the safest option, things started
moving really quickly. Several over-eager surgical residents paraded through my
room to introduce themselves. One of them asked if they could announce whether
the baby was a boy or a girl. I pointed out that my husband had earned that
privilege, even if the baby was being delivered by C-section. In fact, to me it seemed that would be the
lone part of my birth experience that would go according to “plan.”

I remember being given instructions
about how things would work. I was rolled down the hallway and all I could
imagine was the hallways in Grey’s Anatomy—Meredith and Cristina and Bailey,
running down the hallway with a gurney telling everyone to get out of the way.
I remember passing by people and not wanting anyone to look at me. I was covered, but I felt raw and exposed,
and I didn’t want to be seen.

At some point, hubs went off with
a nurse to get dressed in scrubs while the nurses moved me to the operating
room. I was transferred to a table, the
drape was set up, the anesthesiologist introduced herself to me.

I remember feeling very cold. I
remember gasping because the epidural made me feel like I couldn’t breathe,
even though my lungs worked fine. I remember my doctor telling me that I would
feel some pressure and some tugging—but once we started, the baby would be out
in less than 5 minutes. It would take another 20 to put me back together.

The clearest moment from this
entire experience, the one that I will never, ever forget, is the sound of my
husband’s voice when doctor held up our child and told him to make the
announcement. He said “It’s a boy… he’s
so beautiful.” I will remember that
moment—his exact words, his inflection…the way he choked up in the middle of
his sentence… the sheer, raw emotion in his voice—I will remember that moment forever. It is, possibly, the only moment of the
actual delivery that I can cling to with any positive sentiment. But it may just be powerful enough to drown
out the rest.

I remember craning my neck to look
over at the table where another set of doctors were working on cleaning up my
son. I remember the doctors and nurses asking if we had a name picked out. I
remember that my son was brought over for me to see for the briefest of moments
before he went down to NICU—and my husband with him.

I remember the feeling of sheer
desolation. Of not having anyone with me for hours as I was moved from the
operating room back to Labor & Delivery and then to the maternity ward. I
remember laying on my back, staring at the ceiling, tears sliding past my
temples and my ears and dripping down to the pillow. Sobbing for the experiences that I didn’t
have—like laying the baby on me right after birth until he crawled up and
nursed for the first time. Because my baby was in NICU and I didn’t know how he
was. Because I didn’t know when I would be allowed to get up out of bed to see
him and hold him and get to memorize every detail of his face.

Although my water had broken in storybook-like fashion, I
wasn’t having contractions at the time. In labor-land, this means that the
doctors started me on a Pitocin drip in order to encourage my contractions to
start. They were mild enough at the start that I was able to rest my eyes for a
bit, although I couldn’t sleep; the adrenaline and excitement coursing through me
wouldn’t allow for that. H slept on the sofa in the room while I shifted in
bed. Every few hours, they upped the dose and the contractions intensified.

The morning rolled around and I had shifted position. I
moved to a chair and rested my head on the bed. My knees were set apart to rest
my enormous belly between my thighs. I breathed through the contractions as
they pulsed through my body. The sensations weren’t painful, but they were
uncomfortable. Around 11:00am, I was
told that it would probably be another six hours before I would be ready to
deliver the baby. I thought about whether I could handle another six hours of
this and decided to ask for an epidural.

The anesthesiologist came around after a few minutes. (“You’re
lucky, he’s the best in the hospital,” the nurses reassured me.) The whole process was uneventful, and I was
soon resting comfortably. I spent most of the day trying to nap and sending
last minute school emails and anticipating the ever-nearing time when I would
get to meet my new son or daughter.

Around 5 or 6pm, the doctors came to check on my progression.
The good news was that I was fully dilated and effaced. The bad news was that
the baby was still at zero station. I
was also starting to get some chills and was starting to run a fever. The
doctor suggested that I try laying on the “peanut ball” to see if shifting
position would help the baby descend.

I started to get particularly emotional at this point. The
contractions were getting stronger and I knew that, minute by minute, I was
inching closer to finally meeting my son or daughter.

After about 30 or 40
minutes the doctor came back to check. She checked my temperature and looked at
the monitor and shook her head.

She said that my fever and the fact that the baby was starting
to show signs of distress now qualified me for a diagnosis of chorioamnionitis.
In short, I likely had a uterine infection. The only cure for me was to deliver
the baby—and the baby might be sick as a result. In fact, it was entirely
possible that my water broke because I had an infection (especially since I had
already tested positive for Strep-B.)

I was nearing the 24-hour mark past when my water had
broken, but I still had options. I could try pushing for a few hours to see if
the baby would descend, but it might end up just causing more distress and
resulting in a C-section…or I could just have a C-section. Put in the context
that she gave, it seemed to us that there was no real choice. A C-section
seemed like it was the safest means of delivery for both me and the baby. Although
I had tried to keep my “expectations” for birth pretty well-managed, I couldn’t
help but to feel disappointed that I wouldn’t have the experience I had hoped
for. Even worse, because I had been
diagnosed with chorio, the baby was going to be whisked off to NICU after birth
for monitoring and to receive prophylactic antibiotics.

I taught what I had expected to be my second to last day of
school. I was looking to one more day with students, then one day of cleaning
up my classroom while the rest of the school was on a field trip.

After school rehearsals with 7th graders are draining
under normal circumstances. There needs to be another word to convey the sheer
exhaustion I felt after holding a 90-minute after school rehearsal while 39 ½ weeks
pregnant. After the students left, I put my head down on a table and took a nap
in order to summon the energy just to drive home.

My bags were already packed and by the door (and had been
for several weeks.) Within each suitcase
was an assortment of items, divided into plastic bags. Labeled, and neatly
arranged. Both cars had an emergency bag with trash bags and old towels with which
to cover the seats (if necessary.) The
car seat was installed. The baby’s room was ready. My sub plans were in a hazy
state, but my sub was applying to become a middle school band teacher so I
figured that I would give him a general outline and let him work out the rest
of his plans.

I made dinner—penang chicken with jasmine rice, I
think. I laid down on the couch as I had
done many times before: TV tuned to some inane show, laptop open on the coffee
table. I was watching “Catastrophe” on Amazon while chatting with friends. A
colleague (who had herself only just returned from maternity leave) sent me a
message to ask how I was doing. I told her I was tired, but based on my
appointment a few days before I thought I would go past my due date—nothing had
been moving.

20 minutes later, I felt a pop.

_________________________

At some point along the way to preparing to birth a child I
had been told that only about 10-15% of women had that “gush” you see in the
movies when a woman’s water breaks.
Lucky mean, apparently I was in for a Hollywood ending

I squeezed my knees together for dear life and rolled my way
off our brand new couch. Like a penguin, I waddled my way down the hallway to
check. I called out to my husband “Hon… my water just broke.” I heard the surprise in his voice when he
responded and I knew that we were both feeling a mix of shock and excitement,
mixed with a smidge of fear and apprehension. Nothing really prepares you for
this moment.

I took my time getting ready to go to the hospital. I knew
that things were not likely to move fast. I took a shower and braided my hair
while H packed the car. We stopped to take a photo because I wanted to mark this
occasion—our transition from being a couple to becoming a family of three.

As we got into the car, I called my OB’s office to let them
know I was on my way to the hospital. Was I sure that my water broke? “Well, I’m
sitting on three towels to absorb the fluid and every time I move more gushes
out…” I answered a series of questions
that I was prepared for at the time and now, in retrospect, can no longer
remember.

We pulled up to the hospital as planned. We parked in the
designated area. H grabbed a wheelchair, which I tossed some towels onto before
shifting into the seat. I was capable of walking, but I didn’t want to leave a
trail that some poor orderly or custodian would have to clean up. We went up to the Labor & Delivery floor.
He moved the car while I checked in. We waited for a while, then I was brought
into my private room to change, get into bed, and get my first dose of
antibiotics.

…come back down before ever really leaving the ground. The same script every time.

Hand stand? No problem.

Plant hands, square hips, bellybellybelly, kick off the ground—one leg, then the other. Float to the sky, hold for a few seconds. On a good day, rock back and forth between fingertips and palms to fine tune balance before floating gracefully and cat-like back down to the mat.

Try again. DO again. And again.

But headstand? That quintessential yoga pose? I can’t do it. Or really, I can’tdon’t won’t let myself do it.

And yes, I know, I KNOW that all of these are simply “yoga party tricks.” Yoga is far, far more than asana practice—and I work hard in my life to practice yoga in the greater sense. To practice the steps of the 8-fold path. To try to live by the principles of self-study and non-harm and truth and… and… and…

I don’t have a problem being the yogi (or the yoga teacher) that doesn’t “do” headstand. I have a problem being the yogi (or yoga teacher) who doesn’t headstand because she’s afraid of it. Because, really, that’s the issue here. My body has the strength. My brain understands the mechanics, knows that I am physically able to do it. But my heart? My heart’s not in it.

The problem isn’t the pose, the problem is the fear of the pose.

It’s like that for me in life sometimes. I build things up in my head to be far worse than they actually (usually) are. I role play conversations in my head and go through worst-case scenarios. I make plans and back-up plans and back-up-back-up plans. In my head I make up tragic newspaper headlines for the stories that might-or-might-not happen. All the while, I find every possible way to make myself stable and rigid and rooted down, because anything else requires change—and change is scary. Change is uncertain. Change is hard. And I’ve had enough uncertain and hard and scary in my life, and I just plain don’t like it. Or, at least, I assume I don’t like it. Because by avoiding change, I often avoid finding out whether something could be better.

The problem isn’t change, the problem is the fear of change.

The ironic thing is that I am a generally confident person. I've been called fearless more than once. But that confidence stems from the fact that I also happen to be calculating and logical and rational and risk-averse. I find confidence from knowing who I am and where I am and knowing (or thinking I know) how events will unfold.

But change, by its very nature, is disruptive and sometimes transformative. A butterfly cannot emerge unless the caterpillar is first willing to change.

Acceptance of this truth—true, deep-down-in-the-pit-of-my-heart-that-I-don’t-like-to-acknowledge-exists kind of acceptance—requires crossing the bridge from rational and logical to emotional and vulnerable. It’s crossing the divide “where courage and fear meet.” (Brene Brown, “Daring Greatly”). It’s going to the “touchy-feely” kind of place that I avoid at almost any cost.

In the in-between, it means setting aside my ego, asking for help and support and love and encouragement. It means letting go of the conversation in my head, of the assumption that I know how things will turn out (because hasn't the universe already let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I have no way of knowing how this life will turn out)? It’s accepting that “truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they’re never weakness.” (Brene Brown, “Daring Greatly”)

In the end, stability is good. It’s a necessary starting point, but it’s only that—a starting point. At some point, growing requires letting go of fear. It requires accepting that I will likely stumble, I will fall. But I will have people there who love me, who will catch me, who will encourage me to try it again.

And then I will breathe, find the strength that I know is in me, and simply have the faith to see how far I rise.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

I'm visiting a good friend on the other side of the country right now, and as busy as my life has been lately, it's been really nice to get out in the fresh air with sunshine and friends.

While I'm out here I decided to catch a few yoga classes. Between grad school and National Board Certification and life in general, my yoga practice at home is only a fraction of what it used to be--maybe one or two classes a week as opposed to the 6-8 that I used to take. And while I absolutely adore my studio at home, I also now realize that it's always nice to get "out there" and learn from new studios and new teachers.As I've said here many times before (you know, back when I used to write more regularly), one of the best and most important reasons I continued to practice yoga once I started had nothing to do with the physical practice and everything to do with what my studio lovingly calls the "mumbo jumbo." The teacher for today's class spoke about anicca or impermanence, and the way it ebbs and flows moment to moment through life.

Throughout class, I thought about what anicca meant to me. The physical discomfort of a workout? The 1 minute "hard interval" on my bike? The stressful day or week or month (or, let's be honest, year) when there are a million things which need to be done at once? I (and you) can get through them because they're all temporary. And even during that period of discomfort, there are moments when the difficulty lifts. It can be hard, but it's important to take that time to enjoy the moment (however fleeting), to take a breath and be happy that just to be there, to be alive, and to be able to enjoy this ebb and flow of life. Even when there is another hill to climb or another paper to write or another challenge waiting around the next corner.

And in that moment, I remind myself, "YOU are strong and alive and beautiful and the hard parts won't last forever. You can do it."

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

I had an interesting start to 2013. A friend of mine posted on Facebook that she was looking for someone to drive some basset hounds from Arlington to Baltimore on New Year's Day. It just so happened that I was planning on visiting some friends at Johns Hopkins around that time anyway, so we worked it out.And that's how Mabel, Honeychild, and Glenda showed up on my doorstep on New Year's Day.

Their story is heartbreaking.

It all started on Christmas Eve. A desperate email at 2pm about 7 Basset Hounds that were going to be killed in a shelter in Hattiesburg, Mississippi at 4pm.

A breeder could no longer afford to feed them or give them vet care and had dumped them in an overwhelmed rural shelter already 50 dogs past their limit. We couldn't let them die - especially not on Christmas. We committed to them, knowing that four were Heartworm positive and they were all older than the 5 years the breeder had claimed.

In spite of their poor condition, all three puppies were incredibly sweet and gentle.

Poor Glenda.

They were also old, tired, and very sick--between the three of them, they have heartworms (all of them), a serious dental infection, pneumonia, hernias, and a mass on a spleen. Not to mention needing to put on lots of weight.

Sick or no, they all still have plenty of spark left in them. During their pit stop in our backyard, all three of them ran around and played with Rowdy and Millie's toys. (Seriously, you haven't lived until you've seen three basset hounds running chasing the same ball around the yard.) These dogs are spunky. These dogs have a lot of life left in them.

Glenda, Honeychild, and Mabel and the rest of the Hattiesburg 7 need your help. Between them, they need thousands and thousands of dollars in medical care, even after receiving reduced-cost treatment.

If there's any way you can help, please donate to the Tri-State Basset Hound Rescue to help with their care. Their full story and more information on their medical needs is on the Hattiesburg 7 donation page, here. Every little bit helps, and these guys deserve a shot at being happy and healthy once more.